Like A Spring Breeze
by bnfem
Summary: Spoiler Alert: Only read if you've seen 3.05. Sybil/Cora/and a little bit of Branson. Mother/daughter and all that jazz.


Cora sat in silence after Mary had left the room and she had to say what she wanted to say to Sybil. She couldn't make herself get up and go to bed, though it was very late almost slipping into early daylight. Sybil did not look dead to her. She looked as she always saw her: as her beauty, her darling. Those beautiful eyes, her hair dark and beautiful, smoothed down from after when she had given birth. It almost seemed like she was only sleeping, but the color was drained from her face and it took away the illusion for dim lamp enveloped her porcelain skin in a angelic light. It was still hard to believe that she was gone. Cora could remember holding her as a baby in her arms, it seemed like it was just yesterday. Even now, she looked small and Cora imagined holding her in her arms even now. The child was not supposed to go before the mother-that wasn't the natural way of things. She was supposed to go first. She promised to protect her, but she had failed. Mow she only had Tom and baby Sybil to take care of,"I'll take care of them both, don't you worry about that," she had earlier said to her daughter. If only Robert had sided with her, Dr. Clarkson could have saved her daughter, but of course Robert always knew better, along with his ally in Sir Phillip.

She sat, on the bed, holding her daughter's hand, knowing that she wouldn't feel it or wouldn't squeeze back, but still she wished for it. She thought of how many times she had made it through child birth—three times. Why couldn't it have been her? Her daughter was so young with her life ahead of her. But of course, if that had been, she wouldn't have been graced with Sybil as a daughter. She could not imagine anything worse. As Sybil grew into a young woman, she enjoyed leading her through her first London season, something that Cora had enjoyed when she was a young woman. As time passed, however, Cora saw a difference in Sybil—that the life of marrying a nobleman and running a state wasn't her ambition. If Cora had to be truthful, she sometimes wished for more. Sybil became passionate about women's rights and working during the war. Cora cried as she left the nest, knowing she was on her way to doing something important and leaving the estate that had been like stasis to Cora. Her daughter chose her own life. She broke so many societal barriers that Cora had been restricted when she confessed she was marrying Tom, she was shocked at first, but so proud afterwards. She, again, did something Cora never did: married for love without any hope for anything but than their mutual love to keep her warm at night. When Sybil got pregnant, she was beyond happy to have a granddaughter and connect with her daughter as a mother. Now one without the other did not seem right. Just like when Cora had lost her baby before the war. It didn't seem right that she was to go on living, while the poor babe was gone. Nothing in life was fair.

If they had only listened to Dr. Clarkson, who had birthed her and knew her health better than anyone. If they had only listened to her, who knew her baby girl. A mother's bond was never broken, a feeling that couldn't be explained by doctors was always there and begged to be listened to.

Even after everything had seemed right, Cora felt a small pang in her chest. When Mary woke her and Robert out of bed, she knew her worst fears were a reality. Nevertheless she held on to hope that something could be done, but there was nothing, nothing at all. She could do nothing for her, that is what destroyed her. There was nothing worse than feeling helpless to her daughter; nothing worse than feeling like her daughter's life was out of her only they had listened to her, she wouldn't have to lose another baby too soon. "Goodnight, my darling girl," Cora said quietly, not being able to goodbye forever, quite yet. She got up and turned before leaving, "you're not in pain anymore, my beauty, nothing and no one can hurt you now."

Cora entered her bedroom to find to her pleasure that Mary had done as she asked and instructed Robert to sleep in his dressing room. They had not slept separately since the first year of their marriage, when he didn't love her. Cora didn't know if she could ever look at him again, let alone let him back in her bed or love him as he had. She knew he could probably hear her come in, she hoped he wouldn't try and come in. He couldn't be in her good graces, not now. This was the furtherest concern from her mind as of now, all she thought of was Sybil. She turned on her side, unable to sleep. She had to face tomorrow she knew, but she didn't know how she could. When she lost Sybil, she felt a tear in her stomach, as if Sybil was attached to her again and had been pulled prematurely. It hurt her, it made her ache—it would never go away.

She went back to Sybil's room early, still in her night clothes. She saw Tom sitting on the bed, crying gently and holding Sybil's cold hand. He rose as he saw her, "Morning, Lady Grantham, or whatever god awful time it is."

Cora let out a small laugh, riddled with sadness, "Don't get up on account of me, Tom. These are your last hours with her before they come to get her."

Tom smiled kindly. He was afraid that after Sybil was gone that they disregard him. Lady Grantham had always tried to be kind to him, but the same couldn't be said for most of the family. "Thank you," he said. "Please join me, you must say goodbye too."

Cora sighed, "Yes, I suppose I must," Tom brought the chair closer to the bed. He shot Cora a look, not sure what to expect.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry Tom," she said starting to cry gently.

"There's no need to apologize, I've done nothing but cry the whole night."

"Of course," she said. "Did Sybil ever tell you about when she was a girl?"

"A little, not terribly much," he said flatly.

"I want you to know, Tom, I don't know you terribly well but Sybil wanted me to care for you and your daughter, and I will do just that."

"Thank you, Lady Grantham," he said.

She breathed loudly, "Anyway when Sybil was a girl, I loved to sing her. Her favorite song was "Mother's Song." Do you know it?" Tom shook his head, "I'll sing a verse," Cora said.

"_No silk was ever spun so fine_

_as is the hair of baby mine_

_My baby smells more sweet to me_

_than smells in spring the elder tree" _

_Tom and Cora exchanged a look, each thinking the same thing—that another spring would never pass without reminding them of Sybil. Cora would think of holding her small daughter in her arms and singing to her, as a small spring breeze came in through the open window in her nursery. Tom would think of the days he spent working at Downton, watching as Sybil walked through the grounds, like an angel. She was like a spring to both of them in a way. Her kind manner was a breathe of fresh air and her beauty like a flower. They would never see the flowers bloom, without thinking of Sybil and all the goodness she had brought to them as a daughter and a lover. _


End file.
